


Shirts: Michael Gray

by twistedrunes



Series: Shirts [5]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hand Jobs, Light BDSM, Masturbation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Mild Language, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 04:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15477336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedrunes/pseuds/twistedrunes
Summary: You work at the Grace Shelby Institute as a book-keeper. Mr Michael Gray visits fortnightly to do the books. It's your job to ensure he has everything he needs. After a particularly long day, Michael takes you to dinner and has a proposal.





	Shirts: Michael Gray

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: The Shelby boys reactions to coming home to find you wearing his shirt.

Nine o’clock. Michael wasn’t coming, whether because of business or because he was teasing you, building your need, you didn’t know. Couldn’t know. There was no viable reason for you to call at this time on a Sunday evening. You were not a couple.  No one knew you were seeing each other. Not exactly dating, the two of you were intimate in a way you had never been with any other man.

The chill of the evening was beginning to settle around you. Goosebumps were rising on your skin; you consider briefly just going home. But you couldn’t bring yourself to leave just yet. Just in case. Climbing off the bed, you pad across the room to the closet. You remove one of Michael’s shirts slipping it on over your lingerie for warmth. You don’t bother to button it, knowing it would need to come off quickly if Michael were to arrive.

You had met at the Grace Shelby Institute. You were the book-keeper and so when Michael came to do the books once a fortnight you were expected to dedicate your day to him. Bringing files, finding invoices, lodging paperwork. Being available to make tea, fetch more cigarettes, to answer questions or the phone.

You were attracted to him instantly. Highly polished shoes, beautiful woollen suit, crisp collar, precision tie and perfectly starched shirt. Sitting across from him, waiting for his next instruction you were transfixed. Which is why you hadn’t heard him when he asked you for the bakery bill. You didn’t realise he even wanted anything until he held his out as if expecting something to be put in it.

“I don’t like to repeat myself.” He had said, voice professional and calm, when you apologised for not hearing what he had said. For some reason, his words, tone and the way he looked at you combined to make you shudder. A tiny moan escaping your lips. Michael had merely glanced in your direction before returning to his work.  

The next fortnight you had to excuse yourself to the ladies and press a wet towel to the back of your neck after he had sat waiting, smoking, his fingertips rubbing against each other after you had dropped his teacup. Eyes never leaving you as he watched you bend to pick it up. His demeanour raised your heart rate and sharpened your senses. You had the distinct feeling you were prey.

Two weeks later, his eyes had flashed, and his tongue had darted over his lips when you called him “Sir” as you handed over the papers he had asked for. Later that day he had asked if your husband would mind if you had to work back. You had told him you didn’t have a husband or even a boyfriend. He had nodded once and returned to his work. Mrs Jamieson had stuck her head in at six, asking if you would be right to get home. Michael had answered for you, telling her he would take you home and ensure your safety. At eight he had stood up and said: “You must be starving by now, let’s go.” You had followed without a second thought.

Your fingers had pressed to your lips when he turned right out of the driveway instead of left towards your house. “Something wrong Miss?” He had asked.

“No, it’s just my place is in the opposite direction.” You said quietly.

“Did you think I would make you work late and not reward you with dinner?” He asked eyes flicking to you briefly.

“Sorry, sir.” You had replied.

Michael cleared his throat.

 Over dinner, tucked away in a back corner of the bistro he had explained that he found you attractive and had bluntly asked if you were attracted to him, blushing deeply you had admitted that you were. Then he went on to ensure that you understood about the other business his family were involved in, explaining that this meant he felt the need for absolute privacy in his intimate relationships. Then he explained that he had particular tastes which didn’t suit everyone and asked if you would be willing to discuss that further at a later date. Exhilarated, slightly concerned and definitely turned on you had agreed.

That Friday a package was delivered to the Institute. It contained a dress, a train ticket and a note.  _Wear this. Piccadilly Circus. Room 635 The Belmont._  Michael was waiting when you got there. The room was beautifully appointed. He gave you champagne and guided you to a leather armchair. He took up position in the one opposite. “We won’t be having sex tonight.” He began bluntly. “I need to know more about you before we can begin.” You had nodded. “I need to hear you say yes.” He had instructed.

“Yes. Sir.” You had complied.

“Good. I like the Sir. Keep that.” His tongue had passed between his lips moistening them before he continued. “If at any point you feel uncomfortable or want to stop this just say so and we will.” Michael held your eye.

You nodded, and Michael’s eyes widened in mild irritation “Yes. Sir.” You confirmed.

He had asked you questions for over an hour. How many partners you’d, had. What turned you on. Which positions helped you orgasm. When you had explained you had never orgasmed, even by your own hand, Michael had tutted. And so it had gone on until Michael had finished his questioning and taken you to dinner. He was so charming and polite you had nearly forgotten the strange conversation you had just had upstairs. After dinner, he walked you to your room, given you a chaste kiss on the cheek and retired to his own room next door.  

The next morning, after breakfast you had been for a walk in the park and then gone shopping. He had told you that outside of work and your other activities you were to call him Michael, not sir. He had watched as you tried on exquisite dresses, beautiful shoes and delicate negligee. Purchasing those he liked. Back at the hotel, he had kissed you. Deeply, passionately. Telling you how much he desired you.

After dinner, he had come back to your room with you. Opening the curtains so you could look out at the lights of the city. You had danced, closer than was considered decent, his cock pressing against you. But when you had moved your hand over it, he had stopped you. Telling you, you needed to follow his rules, but that he appreciated that you wanted to please him. The two of you had returned to kissing and exploring each other’s necks with your mouths. He had held you tightly around the waist when he nipped your neck at the collarbone, causing your knees to weaken.

Later he had laid you down on the couch, with your head in his lap. He had worked your dress down to your hips, playing with the sensitive skin on your thighs. Watching your face as he did so. Explaining what he was doing each step of the way and making sure you consented. You always agreed “Yes. Sir.” He questioned you intently about how things felt if they made you feel good. Telling you, it was important that both of you understood your own and each other’s bodies.

Then he slipped his hand into your underwear. Stroking you gently, waiting for your legs to relax and fall open before his fingers parted you. Your breathing became shallower. Still, he explained what he was doing and why he was doing it. He dipped his finger into you, drawing your wetness up, over and around your clit. He withdrew his hand to taste you, making you do the same, telling you how much he enjoyed the taste of you. How much it turned him on to know you were wet for him. Returning his hand, he repeated the motion only this time playing with your clit, caressing it with the tips of his fingers.

You had never felt like that before, adored and wanting. Michael slipped his finger inside you, gently, slowly. Then adding another he pressed the pads of his fingers high inside you, finding a spot that made you cry out and buck your hips. Michael explained again what he was doing, asking you to tell him how you felt. Still, with two fingers inside you, he used his thumb on your clit, creating an overwhelming pressure inside you. 

Your eyes had widened at the unfamiliar sensation. Michael had spoken softly assuring you what you were feeling was healthy and natural, his free hand stroking your hair from your forehead. Focused on his eyes, you had allowed yourself to let go. You knew only one thing when you finished that you wanted to feel that way again. It was immediately addictive.

After, in the shower, he had shown you how to use your hand to pleasure him. Guiding your strokes, changing the pressure to suit him. Talking the whole time, telling you how beautiful you had looked cumming. How beautiful you looked now, in the shower. How soft your skin was and how good it felt to have your hand wrapped around him. He had cum on your stomach, cock pressed against you as he kissed you deeply, washing you off he had told you how well you were doing. How much he appreciated you learning how to make him feel good.

You had shared a bed that night, both remaining naked. Just holding each other, fingers exploring each other’s skin. In the morning Michael had continued his exploration of your body with his mouth and hands. Starting at your toes, he had worked his way up your body, skipping over your private parts and breasts. Again asking, wanting consent, learning and teaching you about your own body. 

Initial explorations over, you had kissed each other passionately, you felt like you would burst from just kissing his attention was so complete. You were grinding against him by the time he moved his attention to your breasts. Gasping when he drew your nipple into his mouth and released it slowly from between his teeth.  “Please Sir,” you had begged, your hands pushing gently against the top of his head trying to move him to where you felt you needed him most. Before moving he had told you that you needed to talk to him the whole time, telling him what was good, how things felt, or he would have to stop and ask you questions. So you had cum panting, “There, there, there.”

After lunch, you had learnt how to pleasure him using your mouth. Knelt in front of the window, while he looked out over the city. One hand pressed against the glass while the other played with your hair. He was kind and gentle, telling you how to breathe so you didn’t choke, not giving you more than you could take. Again he showered you with praise, explaining how amazing you made him feel. How much he had enjoyed the taste, and feel of you cumming against his mouth earlier. How he loved watching your desire bloom across your chest, up onto your neck before reaching your cheeks when you came. He had cum in your mouth, telling you how proud of you he was for swallowing it all. Telling you how much he appreciated what you were doing for him. Once you had drained him, he had taken you back to bed again, kissing and caressing you before you both fell asleep.

Stepping outside the hotel had not felt real. You couldn’t believe a world outside your hotel room existed. Michael had organised a cab to take you to the station, kissing you goodbye in the room, promising you would see each other again soon. He wasn’t lying. 

On Thursday you received another box, this time with just a ticket and a note.  _Bristol. The Sands Hotel. Room 519._ You had worn the new negligee and clothes he had purchased on your last trip.

On your journey, you had locked yourself in the ladies, unable to wait for Michael. It had taken only minutes for you to cum, biting your other wrist to stop yourself from crying out. Somehow Michael had known as soon as you arrived. He complimented you for practising before asking you to show him what you had done. So seated on a wooden chair you had pleasured yourself again, it had taken longer with Michael watching you, but as you reached your peak, he had kissed you, and the naked lust in his eyes pushed you over the edge again.

At dinner, Michael had asked if you were willing to allow him to penetrate you. “I would like that, Sir.” You had told him. This time the questions, praise and instructions mixed together, both seeking answers from the other, praising each other, asking for more. You had cum together, before lying panting and entwined. That weekend you didn’t leave the room. You had tried different positions, Michael showing you pictures in a book of things he wanted you both to try. In between sessions and room service you had slept. Always touching, often waking each other from slumber with delicate kisses or wandering fingers.

And so you had continued, Michael taking you further and further into his world, starting with spanking, moving from hand to belt over a matter of weeks before progressing to blindfolds and bindings. Each change accompanied with lengthy discussions, constant checking for consent, praise and compliments. 

After each session, tender and painful body parts were soothed and caressed. After a few months, Michael had organised rooms in Birmingham. Unable to always get away as he wanted. He converted an odd office located in a Shelby owned building, but strangely not accessible from it. Space that was accessible from multiple avenues of approach. Somewhere for just the two of you, meaning you could meet more regularly. Michael always determined when and where. You would receive a note, with a date, time and what was required of you.

Which is why you were waiting tonight, dressed only in negligee with strict instructions not to touch yourself. But now, more than two hours after Michael was meant to be there the temptation was strong. The soft caress of Michael’s shirt against your bare flesh hardened your nipples and made you ache. Climbing back on the bed, you lean back against the cushions. You hand finding it’s way between your legs, fingers brushing over the satin at your crotch. Your hips buck without you applying any pressure. Your fingers slip down the front of your panties, another buck coming as you graze your swollen and throbbing clit.

Just a little, you lie to yourself. Just enough to remove the ache but not enough to cum. You knew Michael could tell if you had already cum. You dip your finger into yourself, drawing moisture up making yourself slick. You bite your bottom lip, moaning. You continue circling your finger around the throbbing nub, promising yourself you will stop in a moment. Your head hangs back, as your eyes close, and your hips begin to pulse rhythmically.

“Is that my shirt?” You hear Michael ask. You jump, jerking your hand out of your underwear, shocked you didn’t even hear him come in. He had obviously been there for some time, his erection protruding from his pants, while he stroked himself lazily. “Don’t let me stop you.” He says calmly.

“I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t going to cum, I just,” you stop talking as Michael crosses the room towards you. He undoes his tie with one hand while still stroking himself.

You go to take the shirt off, “Leave it.” Michael instructs. He stops next to you at the side of the bed. “You know what I have to do.” He says.

“Yes, sir.” You nod, lifting your hands above your head as you slide down.

Michael opens the shirt, his eyes taking in the reddened flesh on your chest, betraying how close you were to orgasm. “Not going to cum, ‘ey?” He says evenly.

“No, sir.” You lie, raising your hands above your head, ready to be restrained.

Michael releases his cock, his hand sliding over your abdomen. “Fuck, you’re freezing.” He says. “Did you put my shirt on because you were cold?” He asks quietly.

“Yes, sir.” You agree

“I’m sorry I was late.” He says sympathetically, keeping his hand on your stomach, he bends down to kiss you. “I’m not going to punish you.” He says “as an apology for making you wait in the cold.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth as his hand slides down into your panties. You gasp. “Oh, darling you are so desperate aren’t you?” He lifts the pressure on your mouth allowing you to answer.

“Yes, sir.” You whine.

“Get up,” Michael instructs, taking off his jacket and laying it carefully at the foot of the bed. You stand as requested. He pulls you against him, embracing you and rubbing his hands roughly over you to warm you. “Better?” He asks after a few minutes

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” He says, his fingers slipping into your panties again, skimming you before being withdrawing again. You moan quietly. Michael takes your face in his hands, kissing you deeply. “I’m sorry I was late.” He says sincerely.

“Thank you, sir.” You manage.

“Do you still want to come?” He asks.

“Please, sir.” You beg, unable to keep the need from your voice.

Michael nods and leads you to the chaise lounge, laying you face down over the arm. Standing behind you he guides the head of his cock over you, spreading your wetness before slowly pushing into you. You groan as he fills you. Michael sighs, telling you how good you feel. He flexes his hips to drive himself home, and you shudder. He begins to work a steady rhythm, his hands pulling you back against him at the top of each stroke. Each thrust sending bolts of electricity through you, it takes barely minutes for you to be on the edge of orgasm again; you were so close before you started.

“Sir,” You moan.

Michael strokes your back soothingly “I know. It’s okay you can come.” He tells you as he pulls you backwards, so only your chest is supported by the arm of the lounge. His fingers finding your clit easily. You are immediately overwhelmed, legs quivering as you cum. Michael grabs your waist, removing himself before spinning you around and lifting you, so you are seated on the arm again, before thrusting back into you.

He tells you how amazing you feel quivering around his cock. How beautiful you look falling apart. How much he loves fucking you. 

Thanking him for your release, you place your hands on his shoulders, so you don’t fall backwards. Michael’s mouth sucks hungrily at your neck as his hands grab your ass firmly, you can feel the finger-shaped markings forming already. You wrap your legs around his waist and angle your hips to give him better access. You rest your forehead against his collarbone.

You speak, reminding him he is the only man who can make you feel this way. The only one who can make you beg for him. Michael’s breath quickens, his thrusts, shorter and harder. You lift your head and press kisses against his neck as he cums. Joining him quickly as his thrusting finds your spot and tips you over the edge again. As you both come down, he kisses you tenderly. He lifts you, and carries you back to the bed, lifting the covers and tucking you in, he kisses your forehead.

He goes to the bathroom, and you can hear him cleaning himself up before he brings a warm flannel. Lifting the covers, he sits next to you as he wipes you down. Satisfied you are clean he covers you up again and strips down and slides into bed next to you. Wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tight against him he apologises for leaving you so long, for your discomfort. He strokes his hands over you, continuing his constant praise. Warm and satisfied you drift off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on Tumblr https://twistedrunes.tumblr.com


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